


Farther to Fly (Farther to Fall)

by iridescentemrys



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Drabbles, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentemrys/pseuds/iridescentemrys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My DCU drabbles combined. Not all featured characters are tagged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farther to Fly (Farther to Fall)

**Author's Note:**

> A few drabbles, I may add more. Be warned: some are better than others. My first work on this site but not my first work ever. I may also post this on my fanfiction.net account, so if you see it twice, don't think it's plagiarism.

Dick dreams of flying.

Not flying the way Superman flies. He never wanted that. He dreamt of the way his parents flew. He dreamt of a trapeze and a wire and a circus tent and a cheering crowd. He dreamt of his mother’s eyes and his father’s smile, and the air roaring in his ears as he flew.

Sometimes the lights would turn off and the crowd would start to scream. The line would snap and then Dick would be screaming with them. Blood was shed and the Flying Graysons fell. Dick never forgot the sickening crack their breaking bodies gave when they hit the ground.

Sometimes Dick would with them. He boasted of his fearlessness, but Dick would always fear falling. He always, always would, just like Bruce would never use a gun. Sometimes Dick would laugh as he fell. Sometimes he screamed. Sometimes he lived when he hit the ground, and he’d look up as he choked on his own blood and see Tony Zucco standing over him with a leering grin.

Sometimes newer demons would surface. Sometimes the Joker would start to cackle that mad laugh of his that sent chills down his spine. Sometimes Two-Face would be back with that accursed baseball bat.

Sometimes he would wake up paralyzed by fear, still, shaking, silent, and most of all, alone. On those nights he curled up underneath his window, arranged his blankets into a safe, warm nest, and watched the stars until they disappeared into sunlight.

Sometimes he would wake up thrashing around, screams fighting to get out of his mouth, just barely halted by his clenched teeth and closed lips. On those nights, he’d sneak down into the library, crack open a tome, and read until Alfred came and brought him to eat his breakfast.

And then there are nights like this. Nights that he wakes up screaming so loudly that he’s out of breath and his throat is sore. Those nights are the worst ones, and he knows there’s no point in trying to pretend it didn’t happen. He’ll run down the hall and into Bruce’s room as fast as he possibly can, and Bruce will already be awake, having been pulled from sleep by the ragged shrieking. His bed will always be warm and much more comfortable and most of all safe, and in his adoptive father’s arms, he doesn’t have to sit wide-eyed and wait till morning. He’ll sleep because he knows he’s going to be alive to wake up in the morning.

He dreams of flying.

xXx

There are very few things that Wally West hates in this world.

Mayonnaise. Geography class. Well, and assorted supervillains, he supposed, but that’s beside the point.

But one thing he decidedly disliked was listening to the long-winded debriefings. Especially when he was the one being debriefed.

All Wally wants at this point is a hot show, a cup of hot chocolate, and a soft bed, accompanied by no less than 15 undisturbed hours. Those things would make him very happy, but he can’t go home to his shower, his kitchen, and his bed until the entire Team has given their accounts of that god-awful mission, and so he is deprived of the three things (among others) that he asks for in this life.

And so Wally West is Not Happy, capital letters withstanding.

“And then what?”

Kaldur fidgeted with his water-bearers. “Well, after that, Wally grabbed Robin and they ran. This was on my orders. If Robin were to remain in the state he was in, it would have been more of a liability than anything. Kid Flash was in no way deserting.”

“You don’t have to justify it; you reacted accordingly. Then?”

“Za-”

“Can I go home?”

The words tumbled out of Wally’s mouth before he’d even realized they were coming. Batman glared at him for a half-second, but the look quickly dissipated and he just frowned. Black Canary touched Wally’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Soon. Just have a little patience.”

“But why does Robin get to go to wherever the hell he went, but we have to stay?” Wally faltered after a moment, noticing that he was dangerously close to whining.

“Robin is injured. He’s getting medical attention,” Batman reminded him, his brow creasing (but whether it was in frustration or worry Wally couldn’t say).

Before the Bat could turn back to Kaldur, his com beeped. He stood, motioning for Black Canary to take over, and walked almost out of earshot.

The key word being ‘almost’.

“Yes? … No, no definitely not… Well, give him a sedative and an IV line… He what? … No, don’t try again… What do you mean by violent? … He needs rest… Is he awake now? …Then I’d like to speak with him…”

Wally exchanged a confused look with Artemis. Official business, it sounded like, but pertaining to whom?

“No, he’s right. You need food, and sleep…” His tone was different now, still professional (probably because he knew the Team may be listening), but he sounded more…firm, caring, less of the strictly-business attitude that the Team usually saw. But he still had that edge. Like he was giving orders. The Batman. He was probably speaking to a League member, Wally thought to himself.

“Alfred knows what he’s talking about… Well, perhaps, but that doesn’t make it okay to—no, that’s what he told me… Lying? Don’t mistake me for an idiot… Yes, I’m sure… Only for half an hour, then… Yes… And you?... Fine… Don’t forget to eat your vegetables. I’ll be back later. Batman out.”

“Who was that?” Wally inquired as soon as the hero returned.

“Green Lantern,” Batman replied seriously. Artemis’s eyebrows shot up.

Wally nodded deeply. “Eats many vegetables, does he? Is that why he’s so…dare I say…green?”

“Yes,” he answered shortly, and went back to questioning Kaldur.

xXx

Damian Wayne had rarely found a kindred soul. Raised as he was, he could not be related to. He could not be understood. He never learned how to be loved and so he could not be defeated. He thirsted for darkness as much as he hated it.

If anyone could understand that, it was this new ‘family’ he had come upon. His father, his brothers; if anyone would understand his confliction, it would be them. But he did not let them. (He felt fear, fear of rejection, fear of disgust and hatred and betrayal. It was a feeling he did not know and so he tried to run [he failed])

Then Cassandra Cain came along and shattered him.

(In the way that you break a bone that is too badly damaged to heal otherwise; that is the way that she broke him)

Several years his senior as she was, she was like the older sister he never realized he needed. She teaches him new fighting techniques and shares jokes with him, and, loathe as he would to admit it, he’d grown attached to her.

(But you do not form _attachments_ in his line of work—but what line of work is that?)

They’ve become nameless, faceless, and unidentifiable, and they’ve both been taught to appreciate that. They face secrets and lies and deception, and they know what it is to be hated. They know what it is to kill, and they know what it is to long for an unattainable retribution.

(They know what it is to be _unloved_ ;)

The others are surprised to find the fast growing companionship between the two. Cassandra had always been closer with Tim, or with Stephanie, and Damian was close to none.

(to be _hated_ ; to be _feared_ ;)

They take the blood that stains their hands and they mix it together and suddenly the burden doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

(to be _unmade_.)

Perhaps there is redemption after all.

xXx

Beneath her pitch black mask, Cassandra’s eyes slid through the streets below her. Gotham, usually so dark and threatening, looked almost welcoming, buried as it was in several feet of snow. It was the height of winter, and the Black Bat was on patrol.

She wondered if she should talk to Bruce about extra insulation in the suit. She was an intimidating persona, but if she kept shivering like this, her reputation would be shattered. But that conversation would be for another night. Tonight, she was leaving the rest of the Batclan alone.

It was Christmas Eve, a time for family. A time to be with the people who you love and who love you.

So Cassandra Cain is alone. Cassandra Cain is patrolling because Cassandra Cain is all alone.

“Hey, little sis. You comin’ to dinner?”

The snow didn’t crackle and crunch under Nightwing’s feet. He was one of the few people on the planet that had even the slightest sliver of a chance of sneaking up on her, but this time, he did not succeed.

“Dinner?” she queried uncertainly, “With whom?”

She couldn’t see his eyes through his mask, but from his posturing and the expression on his face, it wasn’t difficult to deduce that he was looking at her like she’d just announced that the Joker should be pardoned.

“With _us_. You do know that it’s Christmas, right?”

“I’ve never…celebrated this holiday before. I apologize.”

“You’ve never had Christmas?” he asked incredulously, but then thought over who it was that he was talking to and accepted the detail as depressingly plausible. “They’re all waiting for us at the manor anyway. I was late out on the train from ‘haven. I thought you’d already be there.”

She frowned, but obligingly followed as he jumped off of the roof, swinging off of a fire escape before flipping to the next building over. “I did not know I was expected,” Cassandra explained. She wasn’t sure why she felt guilty.

Dick glanced at her, feeling a rush of fond exasperation towards the young woman beside him, who could never seem to understand the idea of being cared for. “Of course you are. That's why it's called _family_.”

She ducked her head to hide a smile.

xXx

The pill. Small, black, seemingly innocuous. Every member had one. Concealed in a pocket stitched into the right shoulder of each of their individual costumes, it could easily be bitten into even with wrists and ankles bound.

_“This is a last resort. Option Z, so to speak. When you have nothing else left.”_

That’s what Batman had told the Team when the idea was first introduced. It had started out as something only Leaguers were given, but as each member of the Team reached 18, they were supplied as well. The pill. Option Z.

_When you have nothing else left._

It was a poison. A swift, painless poison, only to be used when risking giving up vital information during wartime. In other words, when facing torture; when you couldn’t trust yourself to keep your mouth shut.

Nightwing had not gone down easily. The raid they were attempting was anything but simple; casualties were expected. In his downfall, he was content, at least, in the knowledge that he was the only one to be felled, the only one to be taken. He took a bullet to the arm, lasted through three blasts from a sonic pulse, and took down dozens of heavily armed guards before the inevitable transpired. He was outnumbered, and he had known going in that he didn’t stand a chance.

_“Do not take this lightly. Only when there is no hope of rescue are you to even consider this. Am I understood?”_

Dark hair matted with blood and light complexion hardly visible through red-tinged dirt, Nightwing examined the floor in front of him. He was bound painfully tightly to a metal chair. A frighteningly extensive assortment of dangerous-looking sharp, spiked, or otherwise torturous looking instruments was arranged on a table beside him. The likelihood of any assistance from the Justice League grew lesser by the moment, and Nightwing was well aware of what he was doing at this point. He was stalling.

_No hope._

Voices echoed through the air ducts, and for a half-second, he closed his eyes and allowed his shoulders to slump, defeated. He was out of time.

_Nothing else left._

As the door started to creak open, he snapped his head to the side and bit down on the nearly invisible pocket that had been stitched in on top of flexible armor, and he felt a hint of sick satisfaction as he found his target. 

Black started to close in on his vision as a heavy-set man in a lab coat walked in, closely followed by a woman with a buzz-cut and a thick scar running over her eye. “Uh, boss? He ain’t lookin’ so good.” He thought of his friends, of his long dead parents. He wondered if his body would ever be found. He wished he had apologized to Bruce. Fixed things with Zatanna. He wished they’d known who he was, that he hadn’t been so secretive about his identity. He didn’t fight as unconsciousness closed in. 

Dick Grayson was out of options. 

xXx 

No hero starts out perfectly. There are mistakes. Some of them are monumental. Some of them cost people their lives. Some of them are trivial. Some of them are inconvenient. 

Some of them are just embarrassing.

Bruce Wayne was trained by the very best in stealth, tactics, martial arts, and mental dexterity. He was the type of hero that swept out of the shadows and saved the day with a determined scowl and with no expectations of gratitude. He was the type of hero who was feared by his enemies and respected by his friends. He was the type of hero who made a difference. 

He was not the type of hero who misjudged distances. He was not the type of hero who relied on such misjudgments, and he was definitely not the type of hero who walked into walls. 

Everything had been going perfectly. Bank robber, check. Batman, check. Grappling hook, check. Open window, check. It was a move he’d executed dozens of times by then. 

So why, exactly, was the window just a few feet too far to the left? 

The stucco exterior scraped his cheek. His dignity would take much longer to restore. 

xXx 

Clark Kent. Kryptonian. The Man of Steel. Strongest Man Alive. Only one clear weakness, one very hard to come by weakness. Kryptonite. 

Well, that, and the occasional misplaced skyscraper. 

Flying was not always the simplest thing, even for a Kryptonian. There or more factors to consider than just ‘jump’ and then ‘don’t fall’. There’s wind speed and direction, there’s weather conditions, there’s visibility. And above all, there are obstacles, especially in crowded cities like Metropolis. 

The news footage ran on every station. Superman wasn’t seen in public for a week and a half. It took six months for the dent in the building to be repaired. It was a constant reminder to the general public. 

A reminder that once upon a time, the Man of Steel flew headfirst into a skyscraper in broad daylight. 

xXx 

It isn’t entirely unusual for Dick to fall asleep at the manor and wake up in the middle of a pile of drowsy teenagers. 

It had been a rough day. A rough week, a rough month, and for that matter, a rough year. But he’s Nightwing. He isn’t about to just give up and turn tail just because of a few long days. He answered Bruce’s call and showed up at the manor at around 4 am, which was pretty normal as far as the Bat-family works. Bruce is always up into the early hours of the morning, and four was actually pretty early for Dick to be finishing patrol. 

Two hours later, he wanders upstairs, wondering if he should even bother to try the subway lines, or just get back to Bludhaven via his own devices. 

He was only going to sit down for a _second_. Just a second to think about it. But then Alfred was asking if he wanted some tea before he left, so he figured he might as well sit on the couch while he waited. And really, he thought that Alfred would wake him up, but he supposed the well-meaning butler had thought he looked tired (which he was, but that was no excuse for falling asleep). 

All he knew was that the sun was very high up in the sky, and he was being swarmed over by a bunch of sleeping teenagers. 

What he found most strange about this was that this wasn’t a surprise. 

The first time it had been a little irregular, he supposed. He’d woken up in the middle of the living room to find Tim tucked up against his side, Damian draped over the both of them like an overlarge cat, Stephanie and Barbara lying on top of one another on his other side, and Cass’s slim form nestled into the tiny space in between Dick and Stephanie with her head resting on his stomach. 

Titus was curled up at Damian’s feet, and Dick found he didn’t have the heart to wake them all up by moving. 

And of course, Bruce chose that undignified moment to walk in. 

His eyebrows rose. 

“I’m kind of stuck,” Dick muttered plaintively. 

“Again,” Bruce reminded him. 

Dick nodded his assent. “Again.” 


End file.
